


Faigh - To Win

by tabaqui



Series: Short Stories and Alternate Universes [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vikings, M/M, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23070658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: The Ostermen come a'viking, killing and burning.  And the dead must be avenged.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Short Stories and Alternate Universes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658011
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	Faigh - To Win

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this *delightful* image of Bucky Barnes [as a viking](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/fb/b1/87/fbb1871f80f94bf78796364a86908fbf.jpg), and, well...my brain went all over the place. :D  
> The rape/non-con tag is for an allusion to an undetailed past event, and the merest suggestion of another possible past event. **There is no rape/non-con in the story.**
> 
> Beta'd by the ever-wonderful Darkhavens.
> 
>  _Stíofán Mac Ruaidhrí_ \- Stephen son of Ruaidhrí (Anglicised to Rodgers/Rogers) (Gaelic)  
>  _Iago ap Sior ap Gwylim ap Rhys_ \- James son of George son of William son of Reece (Welsh)  
>  _Steffan_ \- Steven (Welsh)  
>  _Dania_ (Latin) - Denmark (then called Jutland or Jylland)  
>  _Druim Inesclainn_ \- a monastery in 10th century Ireland (Gaelic)  
>  _Cnoc Bán_ \- White Hill (Gaelic)  
>  _Séamus_ \- James (Gaelic)  
>  _Séamaisín_ \- Jimmy or Jaimie (Gaelic)  
>  _Ériu_ (Gaelic) _Írland_ (Old Norse) - Ireland  
>  _scian_ \- Irish dirk; a long-bladed dagger (Gaelic)  
>  _wergild_ \- the value set in Anglo-Saxon and Germanic law upon human life in accordance with rank and paid as compensation to the kindred or lord of a slain person.  
>  _Ibn Darraj_ \- Son of Darraj (North or West African)  
>  _skald_ \- a composer and reciter of poems honoring heroes and their deeds (Old Norse)  
>  _Jarl_ \- (man of noble birth) a Norse or Danish chief (Old Norse)  
>  _karl_ \- (free man) a farmer, craftsman, sailor, or warrior (Old Norse)  
>  _thrall_ \- slave (Old Norse)  
>  _úlfr_ \- wolf (Old Norse)  
>  _Ostmen_ \- (men from the east) - Irish term for invading Vikings. From Old Norse.  
>  _Roskilde_ \- a viking port town in Denmark  
>  _Mater Dei_ \- Mother of God (Latin)

"I claim _wergild_ ," Stíofán said, standing straight and steady in the town common. Around him, the men and women and children of Roskilde shifted and murmured, but Stíofán paid them no mind, no more than he did the massed household before him. He didn’t dare look...anywhere, at anyone. He had eyes and attention only for one man: _Jarl_ Aleksander, who sat on a tall chair of hide and wood, wrapped against the still biting spring air. A chair dragged outside, to set him up like a king.

Faded yellow hair, faded blue eyes; the _Jarl_ was altogether something else. Not what Stíofán had pictured. Not what he _remembered_ , or thought he did. That night of blood and fire, that night…

"I claim _wergild_ ," he repeated, the only sentence he knew in the language of Dania. For the rest, it would be Latin, and he had to hope the ship's captain had been right, and they had someone here that spoke it.

"I am Stíofán Mac Ruaidhrí, of Druim Inesclainn, of Ériu. But I was born of Cnoc Bán, which thou and thy _karls_ hewed and fired to ruin and ash. Of the three-score of us, only I and one other was left alive. And now I come for _weregild_ , for the murder of my mother, the murder of my father, the murder of all my line and theirs."

A round-faced, dark-skinned man in grey wools and wolf fur bent near the _Jarl's_ ear, speaking softly. Stíofán saw the _Jarl's_ eyes go wide and then narrow, studying him. Stíofán knew he was not imposing; his frame was light, his shoulders not wide, his thighs not thickly muscled. But he had worked six years on docks, and on the sea, hauling nets and sails, climbing rigging, caulking seams. He was not fragile.

The _Jarl_ stood up from his chair, drawing a cloak of dapple-grey skin around him, the shoulders and throat ruffed with silver-shot black fur. He gestured Stíofán closer, and Stíofán took three long strides and then stopped as the _karls_ around the chair stirred, hands going to weapons.

"I am Ibn Darraj, the _skald_ of Roskilde. I shall speak for the _Jarl_ ," the dark-skinned man said. His Latin was accented, liquid and easy. Stíofán nodded as Aleksander started to speak.

"For many years in my youth, and beyond, I went viking on the shores of Írland. Many of thy farms and halls have come under my sword. Many of thy people are my _thralls_." The _Jarl_ came closer, his soft, leather shoes silent on the grass, his faded-yellow hair done in intricate braiding at the temples. His eyes - almost colorless, a water-washed blue - were cold and lifeless,without care or regret.

"I owe no _wergild_ to the beetle I crush underfoot. And I owe none to thee." He stopped a long arm's-reach from Stíofán, those cold eyes assessing. Then he turned away, carelessly giving his back, dismissing. Saying something _skald_ did not translate, but Stíofán did not need him to - he knew.

Two of the _karls_ moved, one drawing a long-bladed knife, one hefting a spear, and Stíofán moved, quick and light, and had his _scian_ in hand, the long, flat blade at the _Jarl's_ throat, his other hand fisted in the supple hide of his cloak.

"I will not leave here without recompense," Stíofán said, his voice low but steady, the knife just kissing Aleksander's jugular. For a very long moment, no one moved at all, and then a woman screamed somewhere behind them. Aleksander made a sharp little twitch of his body, quickly stilled. Stíofán let the edge of his knife - honed and wetted and fine as a web - taste the flesh of the _Jarl's_ throat. 

"Thou must not-!" the dark man said, his hands raised, and Aleksander said something, rapidly, holding very still in Stíofán's grip. "Thou wilt...if thou is bent on thy course, then thou must prove the strength of it. Wilt thou fight?"

"If I must fight to claim what is mine by right and thine own law, so be it," Stíofán said. He whipped his knife away, pushing the _Jarl_ , who stumbled forward and then strode, angry now, back to his chair. He flung himself down and his _skald_ bent to him, speaking softly. After a moment, they both straightened, the _skald_ stepping back, and Aleksander lifted a hand to his _karls_ , come-hither.

One stepped out of the throng, showing his teeth, and Stíofán nearly laughed. Of course, it would be him.

The _karl_ was a tall man, a good two heads taller than Stíofán, and more. Wide and broad and barrel-chested, he hefted an axe, almost absurdly slim in his meaty grip. It was _pretty_ \- a glinting thing inlaid with silver, the haft carved, wrapped around with red-dyed hide at the grip. A shield was in his other hand, a circle of dark-stained wood, bossed with iron and brass. He lifted both and slapped the flat of the axe on the shield boss, making it ring. He bowed once to his _Jarl_ and then turned to face Stíofán, grinning, yellow teeth framed by black hair, and the painted skull of some animal - a bear? - riding his shoulder.

Stíofán's shield was on his back, and he pulled the tie that loosed it and let it fall at his feet. He unfastened the pin at the shoulder of his cape and let it unwind from him, tossing the yards of oiled wool and rabbit fur to the side. The thick, knitted sweater was next, creamy wool flecked with darker brown. In his linen tunic and trousers, he felt chilled, thin. He lifted his shield up, and exchanged dirk for sword, his sword-blade ringing out as he, too, slapped the flat of it to his shield. A breeze stirred Stíofán's long hair, blowing it against his throat, his bearded jaw, his cheek. He ignored it, lifted his chin and nodded once to the _karl_. 

He stood, toes flexing in his flat, leather shoes, shield to the fore and sword raised, and waited for the _Jarl_ to give the signal.

Úlfr shuffled out of the _Jarl's_ longhouse with the rest of the thralls, ducking his head down and finding a place off to one side. Someone had come up from the harbour, asking to see _Jarl_ Aleksander, and of course, they must make a show of it; must put out a chair and give audience. All his thralls and all his _karls_ , Aleksander draped in sealskin and silk and thick, rich fox fur, rare silver and black. 

Various freedmen and women had come, too, wanting to see, and they ringed the edges of the common, chattering and jostling like it was market day. Úlfr simply stood, cradling the stump of his left arm in the palm of his right, letting his long hair come down around his face. Hiding, as much as he could. There were flecks of wood on the front of his woolen tunic, and he wished he were back at the woodlot, hewing and chopping. 

There was a murmur from the crowd, people moving aside so that two figures could come through. One of them, a _karl_ who had brought the man up from the harbour, hurried to Aleksander's side, to whisper in his ear. The _skald_ bent, too, but Úlfr paid them no attention. All he could see was the man.

Not a tall man, or big; a man of lean limbs, long fingers, a strong nose. A dark beard bleached a little reddish by the sun, trimmed close, and long hair...pale hair, the color of winter sunshine. But his eyes; even from his place to the side, Úlfr could see the man's eyes, in a gaze that met his for a fraction of a moment, and then moved on. Eyes that were like the sun on the sea; like the sky in summer. Blue, so blue.

Then the man began to speak. _Wergild_ , he said. And then he said...and then…. _I am Stíofán Mac Ruaidhrí...of Ériu, of Cnoc Bán. Cnoc Bán, Cnoc Bán_ , like a drum in Úlfr's head. _Stíofán Mac Ruaidhrí… **Stíofán** …._

"Oh, _Mater Dei_ ," Úlfr whispered, his heart _pounding_ , pounding, his vision blurring, his nose filling with the stink of smoke and blood, the reeks of shit and piss and vomit. He could hear...he could hear the horrible, wet slap of a man's intestines, spilling from his belly...the rasping rattle of a last breath...the shrieking of children. His own voice, shrieking, shrill and high and terrified; ' _Mam, Mam, na, Mam, Tad - **Stíofán**!_'

Úlfr choked, gagging for air, and one of the old thralls pushed him back, pushed him down, head down, out of sight. Úlfr crouched there, against the longhouse wall, his eyes pouring tears and his hand clamped tightly over his own mouth. _Mustn't make a sound, don't make a sound, don't squeak, don't squeal, little cub, little piglet...._

Iron rang on iron, on wood; breath grunted and heaved from lungs, and Úlfr forced himself to stand, wiping his sleeve over his face, pushing his hair back. The _karl_ and Stíofán were circling, both breathing hard, but not breathless. Sigurd Ragnarsson was second only to Ibn Darraj in the _Jarl's_ eyes; his fiercest warrior, his strong right hand, a man tall and wide and thick of limb and brain. Murderer of thralls, and beater of children; forcer of women and men, but the _Jarl_ did not care about that. 

Úlfr watched, flinching, as Sigurd advanced and smote Stíofán's shield a cracking blow. The shield split apart, and Stíofán threw the useless bits aside, caught the new shield that was tossed his way by a _karl_ , and squared up again, panting. More blows, another shield shattering to splinters. One caught Stíofán's face, and blood beaded there, a carmine jewel against his pale skin.

Úlfr...could not breathe, could not _breathe_. He found his right hand was fisted, twisting, in the woven rope of his belt, and his belly was sick and cold, heavy as lead. He wanted to cry out, he wanted to rush forward, but he was frozen. He could only watch.

Sigurd dove and flailed at Stíofán, a flurry of blows that Stíofán ducked and dodged, barely. The axe rang again and again off this third? fourth? shield, and Stíofán was panting hard, sweat making the hair at his temples curl, sticking the thin linen of his shirt to his back. Half bent over, weaving on his feet. Sigurd was grinning, lumbering forward, his axe lifting high and high, flashing in the sunlight. Descending like a kite, diving down-

And Stíofán was on one knee, his shield raised above his head, his short, plain sword pushing up into Sigurd's belly. Up and wrenched sideways, piercing his heart, twisting and sliding free as Stíofán spun away, from his knee to his feet, the axe glancing off the shield and falling...as Sigurd was falling, hands clutching his belly. His face drained of color as a glass drained of wine, and he fell with a thump to the trampled grass. The common, which had resounded with cries and curses and cheers, was now utterly silent. Only the far hiss and boom of the sea, only the cry of gulls, like distant screams.

Stíofán flicked his sword to the side, shedding blood. He bent his leg up and wiped the sword, smoothly and precisely, this side and that, on the side of his shoe, before turning to the _Jarl_. There was blood on Stíofán's cheek and the arm of his tunic - between his fingers. Blood was flecked across his shoulder, soaking into the white linen. He was breathing hard, the air rasping a little in his throat, and the color was high in his cheeks. But he stood straight, his sea-blue gaze steady.

"By thine own law, I am victor here. By thine own law, _wergild_ is still owed. But I do not wish more blood spilled in this old grudge. I will be satisfied by one other life. Give me a thrall, and we are quit," he said, and Úlfr...understood. _Remembered_ , like sunlight coming through clouds: he and Stíofán sitting side by side on a bench, slowly reading aloud the Latin Úlfr's father had scratched for them on a scrap of hide. His _father_ , who had come north with the monks to Ériu to help build an abbey, and had stayed, having found an Ériu bride.

He and Stíofán, born a bare year apart, growing up together, learning to read, to fish, to guard the sheep, to find the eggs... Together, together, until that day, that night, of blood and smoke, when the Ostmen had come down. Like crows, they had ripped, torn, killed...the abbey in flames, and men like sacks of dirty linen in the fields, the women screaming, screaming, until they stopped.

And then _Aleksander_ , pulling free of Stíofán's Mam, one hand holding her down by her throat, the other hand lifting his axe from his back and bringing it down… and Stíofán screaming as he burst free of the heap of old sacking and straw she had hidden him in, leaping for Aleksander... and the axe coming around again, into his head, blood, _blood_.

Úlfr felt the scream in his throat that he had screamed that night, seeing it. Felt it choking him, strangling his breath. Stíofán had _died_ that night, and Úlfr had screamed for him as the Ostmen had snatched him up - himself and some few others, babes in arms, a girl of three. ' _Life for life_ ', Aleksander had told him, later. Lives to replace those taken in the raid. Thralls given to the families who had lost a warrior. Stíofán had died in Úlfr's dreams, over and over, but here he was. Here he was, alive, breathing, being; _Stíofán_.

Nearly a score of years had passed, since that night. Úlfr himself had been only nine. And all this time, all this time... He had forgotten. He had forgotten himself. Aleksander was saying something, sputtering, and Stíofán cut off his words, and the _skald_ , with a sharp motion of his sword. He lifted it and pointed, straight at Úlfr.

"That one. I choose that one," he said, and Úlfr felt a hot-cold rush of terror and shock. The thralls around him were fading back, looking away; vanishing in plain sight, leaving a ring of clear grass around Úlfr. He shook his hair back and braced his shoulders, stepping away from the others to walk, as steadily as the wild pounding of his heart would allow, to Stíofán.

Stíofán stood with sword and shield, fingers clenched to hide their shaking, jaw clenched to keep from shouting. To keep from _screaming_ for Iago to come to him, to run to him, to _hurry_. He wanted to snatch his old friend by the hand, by the sleeve and _flee_. 

He had not thought, when first he came into the _Jarl's_ hall, to know him, to find that oft-dreamed face amongst the throng. But in looking at the massed group of freedmen and thralls in the dusty air, Iago's face had come clear like a fish breaching the surface of a lake. It was his eyes, the color of steel and twilight, silvery grey-blue, thickly lashed, like beacons in the dimming crowd.

 _Iago_ , who had been dragged away while Stíofán lay dazed and bleeding, his skull unseamed by the flat of the axe. Aleksander, like some giant of filth and fire and iron, striding away, Iago pulled in his wake.

But he was _here_ , as Stíofán was here, and a man lay dead for Stíofán's mother, for his father, for all his cousins and aunties and uncles; for the holy man in the abbey, for the new crops ground underfoot, for the thatch burned and the walls stove in and the animals taken.

It was not enough; it would never be enough. But Iago...Iago made it...bearable.

But first, they must get away, before the _Jarl_ , red-faced and huffing, set more of his men on Stíofán, or had Iago snatched back. Iago walked forward, his dark hair grown long as Stíofán's, his jaw shadowed with the same. His shoulders were wider than Stíofán's, his body taller, and… his arm. His arm, ending before his elbow, the sleeve of his tunic knotted up and empty.

"Thou has paid me, in blood and in life. I will take my leave of thee and thine, and expect this is an end," Stíofán said. The _skald_ was murmuring in Aleksander's ear, and Stíofán turned to his cape, his sweater, only to find Iago snatching them up, bundling them together. Stíofán let the last shield - borrowed shield - fall to the grass. He gave a small bow to the _Jarl_ and then he turned, straight-backed, and marched from the common. The people, oh thank a merciful God, parted before him. He could hear Iago behind him, walking fast, and without turning, he said: "Is there aught you need, from thy lodgings?"

"I...I want for no thing of his," Iago said, his Latin faltering, but clear.

"Good. Then we must run, for the tide is going out, as is our ship." From behind them, a sudden cry went up from the crowd; the wail of a woman, and the guttural shouts of men. Stíofán cast one, fast look over his shoulder at the commonl, where _karls_ were shoving through the scattering crowd, armed, yelling, and at Iago, who was wild-eyed, mouth open in shock. "The captain promised he'd wait as long as he could," Stíofán said.

And then they were running, running, pounding down the hill, through the twisty streets, to the harbor, where the ship lay creaking, sails half unfurled, ready to slip her moorings and fly. As they pelted down the dockside, the sailors unwound the ropes and loosed her, and the sails belled out, full and taut. She moved from the dock as grand and glorious as a swan, and Stíofán was laughing, running - _leaping_ from the stone to the tilting deck, shocked to discover his sword still in his hand.

Iago thumped to the timbers right behind him, and Stíofán thrust the sword back into its sheath and reached for him. Iago was already reaching back, pulling Stíofán to him, crushing them both together, bellies and chests and mouths, oh…

They kissed to the creak of the lines and spars, the slap of the waves, the indignant shouts of the _karls_ on the dock, the mocking whistles of the sailors. Kissed, and let go, and breathed, and Stíofán felt as if he were breathing again for the first time in a hundred years.

"Séamus, Séamaisín, it's you, it's you, I found you," Stíofán said, mostly into Iago's chest, forgetting and speaking his own tongue, Latin beyond him for a moment. 

" _Steffan_ ," Iago said, and his voice was like it had been, so many years before, that husky lilt when he pust Stíofán's name into his father's tongue. "I- you died. You _died_ ," he said, choked. 

Stíofán lifted his head, and lifted his hand and pushed his hair back, showing the gnarled scar there, left by the swinging flat of the axe. "No, not me, never me," he said. Seagulls whirled around them, white wings in the sun, crying like the ghosts that Stíofán could let rest, now; crying like newborns, at the first day of the world. "Not until I had you back, and not for all the years of my life, Séamaisín, and all the years of yours."

"And not even then," Iago said, and his eyes were so bright, so brimming with joy; the eyes of a long-lost child, finally coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in about a day, have about 31 bookmark that I used for research. I think I have a small problem....
> 
> I freely admit the fight between Stíofán and Sigurd is based on [this awesome fight](https://youtu.be/lM5FTQjMYpg) between Herger and Angus in _The 13th Warrior_.


End file.
